


The Stream of Warm Impermanence

by rabidchild67



Series: Kid!Neal Chronicles [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Adoption, De-Aged, Harm to Children, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Burke is 11 and the most popular boy in school. His dad Peter is a badass FBI agent, his mom Elizabeth makes the best chocolate chip cookies, and his Uncle Mozzie shows him how to pick locks when his parents aren’t looking. His life is great. Except that lately, Neal has been having these strange dreams – dreams of another life and another Neal. What if they’re true?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stream of Warm Impermanence

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the  Kid!fic Challenge  at the LJ Community, WhiteCollarHC. Special thanks to JRosemary and IvorySilk for the beta reads! 
> 
> Title is a lyric from the song “Changes” by David Bowie.

As the thunderstorm that had been threatening all afternoon began to splatter big, fat drops on his head, Neal ran the remaining block at top speed, taking the steps to the Burkes’ front door two at a time to avoid the downpour. He burst through the inside door, eliciting a startled bark from the dog, and stood just inside, breathing heavily. 

“Hey!” he greeted the dog, who had launched itself at his knees in a flurry of scratchy paws, wet nose and slobbery tongue.

“What is that racket out there?” Elizabeth called from the kitchen, walking in and drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, feigning disappointment.

Neal laughed lightly and rushed over to her, throwing his arms around her enthusiastically. “Mom,” he scolded, “you know you’re thrilled to see me!”

“As ever, my darling,” she said, and kissed the top of his curly head as the first thunderclap sounded overhead. “And not a moment too soon, I think.” A whine from the dog made them both turn – Jezebel hated storms. 

Ever the thoughtful boy, Neal distracted the dog by running past her. “Come on, Jezzie!” he called, bounding up the stairs, the dog on his heels. El returned to the kitchen to the telltale sounds of wrestling overhead as her son tired the chocolate Lab out for a few minutes while the brief storm passed overhead. 

A timer sounded, and Elizabeth went to remove the last batch of the chocolate chip cookies she’d been baking from the oven. She left them to cool in their pans for a minute while she went to run water into the mixing bowl. By the time she turned around to remove them to cooling racks, three had been taken from the tray and her 11-yr old was firmly ensconced in his customary seat at the kitchen island, half a cookie already shoved into his face.

She frowned at him. “You’re getting a little too good at lifting things, mister. Am I going to have to have a talk with your Uncle Mozzie?”

“Mom, you can’t really blame me. They’re the best chocolate chip cookies in all of Brooklyn.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, giving him a dubious look.

“Would I lie? All the kids at school voted. You beat Mrs. Anderson by a mile.”

“Really?” El couldn’t help but be flattered – Mrs. Anderson used to be a pastry chef.

Neal made a cross-my-heart gesture and she went to the fridge to pour him a glass of milk. 

“All right, I’ll buy it this time. What’s for homework today?”

“I finished most of it already – just have to read up on the Battle of Gettysburg for history class.” He frowned.

“What? Is history so boring?”

“No, but it’s just – well, violent, Mom. So many people died. I hate reading about it. I mean, what’s the point – it’s not like people have learned, have they?” His blue eyes were large and empathetic as he looked at her, and she had to smile at his sincerity; he had always been so sensitive – _always_.

“Your father will love to hear you say that.”

“Nah, he’ll just make me recite dates to him.”

“That too!” she laughed. “Now go on and do your reading, and make it snappy. Your Uncle is coming for dinner tonight.”

Neal's face lit up – any night that Uncle Moz came for dinner was bound to be fun.

\----

“I’m home!” Peter called as he opened the door, briefcase in one hand, cell phone to his ear with the other. He continued his conversation with Diana as he shrugged out of his raincoat, then idly patted Jezzie on her head when she came to greet him.

“Hi, hon!” El called from the kitchen. 

“Sneakers off the couch,” Peter muttered to Neal without even looking at him, and continued addressing Diana, “No, I need the figures for last April too, Di – thirteen months.”

“Hi, Dad,” Neal said distractedly, keeping his nose buried in his History book as he moved his feet to the floor.

“Yeah…yeah. That’s it, uh huh. Why? Ha! OK, fine. Yeah, bye, Diana.” He rang off and glanced over at his son. “What, no hug for the old man?”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “What, no hug for me?” But he laughed and ran to his father, Peter letting out a slight _oof_ as the kid’s head hit him in the solar plexus – he was growing entirely too fast for his liking. “Catch any bad guys today, Dad?”

“A fair few,” Peter said, his stock answer. They walked through to the kitchen with their arms around each other. “Something smells good!” Peter remarked, and went to kiss his wife hello.

“Pork loin and roasted potatoes,” El replied. 

Peter made yummy noises and walked to the fridge; he grabbed himself a beer, then poured a glass of white wine for his wife. “What’ll you have?” he asked Neal with a nod. “Your usual?”

“Make mine a martini today,” Neal said and Peter handed him one of the fruity water things he liked.

“What’s this?” Peter asked, thumbing through the mail and holding up an envelope with a familiar return address.

El looked over and a brief flash of worry marred her features as she shook her head; she glanced over at Neal, who was bent over, playing with Jezzie’s ears. “Later,” she mouthed to him.

Peter nodded. “And this?” Peter said as he picked up a piece of paper with a bright red A+ scrawled at the top.

“That’s Neal's algebra test,” El answered with pride. 

“Great job,” Peter said to him as he straightened. “Is that a 104 average in this class now?”

“106,” Neal corrected.

Peter beamed. “You know I like smart.”

\----

After dinner, Neal sat with his Uncle Mozzie in his room, fiddling with the lock picks Mozzie’d given him for his 11th birthday, a pair of standard, police-issue handcuffs clinking on his skinny wrists. 

“Come on, you can do this,” Moz encouraged.

Neal made frustrated noises. “I could if I had the torsion wrench for leverage. This is hard with just the one pick, Moz.”

“Well, you have to learn how to cope under adverse circumstances. You never know when you’ll have to improvise with a hairpin or something.”

Neal gave him a level look. “Hairpin? Are we in olden times now?”

“Don’t be a smartass. Tick-tock, it’s been five minutes already.” Moz sipped at his red wine and glanced out the window at the blossoms on the trees – how he loved the spring, he reflected. 

“Ta da!” Neal said, holding the cuffs aloft with pride. “I did it!”

Moz gave him a look. “Bullshit, I know you slipped them instead. Do it again with the pick, and this time you’ve only got eight minutes.”

“Mozzieeee!” Neal whined, but Moz held up a finger and gave him a stern look.

“This is important, Neal. It won’t always be so easy to slip out of cuffs – you’re a growing boy. Here.” He pressed a small paper bag into his hands.

“What are these?” Neal asked, regarding the small pieces of metal in the tiny poly bag he found inside. 

“More picks. You sew them into the seams of your clothes. Always be prepared, my lad.”

“You’re awfully paranoid, Uncle Moz.”

“Humor me.”

“Boys, it’s time for dessert!” El called up the stairs and they both jumped.

“Quick – stow that all away. If she finds it she’ll flay me alive.”

“Shouldn’t you be more afraid of what Dad might do?”

“No,” Moz said with a shudder, and got up to leave.

\----

_”I don’t like it, Peter, I don’t.”_

_“What’s not to like, hon? They want to put him ahead two whole grades.”_

_“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”_

_“What, I’m not supposed to? I can’t be bursting with pride over this? Our son is a genius!”_

Neal lay on his back in his room, listening to his parents fight. Well, “fight” was probably a strong word for it – they were unerringly polite with each other no matter what. His guidance counselor had sent a letter home recommending Neal be put forward two grades in the fall. That had been the subject of the letter his parents had refused to discuss in front of him earlier, he knew. The prospect both frightened and excited him.

_”I don’t want him growing up too fast, Peter. Look what that did to him last time.”_

_“What are you talking about, ‘last time’?”_

Neal could almost hear her eye-roll.

 _”You know as well as I do what happens when a precocious young man with_ certain talents _is left to his own devices. Last week I saw him picking the locks to the front door.”_

_“That’s because Moz gave him those lock picks.”_

_“And I can’t believe you let him keep them!”_

Neal could feel his heart speed up a little – he hadn’t thought his Mom had seen him, nor did he think his parents knew about the picks.

_”It’s a useful skill.”_

_“This coming from an FBI Agent. Is this Opposite Day?”_

_“Hon, come on. I don’t see what that has to do with him being promoted two grades.”_

_“You don’t? I just don’t want him falling into certain patterns again.”_

“Again?” Neal whispered to himself.

_“You make it sound like it’s a foregone conclusion.”_

She didn’t answer verbally.

_”Is this a nature vs. nurture argument? Am I hearing this from my wife?”_

There was a shocked silence during which Neal's mind was reeling. What were they talking about?

_”I can’t believe you’d say that.”_

_“I could say the same thing, El.”_

_“Peter, you don’t think that I think –“_ There was a quaver in his mother’s voice and he thought she might be crying. They lowered their voices and Neal couldn’t hear the next few minutes of conversation.

 _”OK, fine – we’ll ask him what he wants to do, then. You’re right – it ought to be up to him,”_ Elizabeth was saying, but Neal didn’t miss the worry in her tone.

\----

_He was in the elevator at last, the doors closed safely behind him as the security guard banged uselessly on them. All he could think was that he needed to get to the top floor – Peter’s life depended on it._

_“I will call the police!” the guard threatened._

_“Good! Call the paramedics!” Neal called back. He cast about the small space, looking for something useful, and his eyes fell on his own tie bar. He used it to undo the screws on the control panel for the elevator._

_“You need to exit the elevator now, sir,” the guard said._

_“Will you send me up to Kent’s floor?”_

_“No.”_

_“Then I can’t.” Neal pulled off a ground wire and flicked it across the circuits within the elevator’s mechanism. Thankfully, it was enough – the security panel readout suddenly said, “ACCESS GRANTED.” He pushed the button for the top floor._

_“Peter!” Neal said as he arrived at Kent’s office. There was Peter, passed out on the floor of the spacious room, another man sprawled on the couch nearby. Neal picked Peter up under his armpits and dragged him back to the elevator._

_As Neal set Peter down, he roused. “Neal!”_

_“You’re gonna be ok. Stay with me, all right? Hang in there.” Neal hit the down button urgently five or seventy times._

_“Kent!” Peter gasped._

_“No, Peter, we don’t have time.”_

_“We can’t leave him here,” Peter said, grasping Neal's arms._

_“You are dying, Peter!” Neal wanted to yell and scream, make him understand._

_“Neal! Neal, we don’t leave anybody behind.” One look at Peter’s ashen yet determined face was all Neal needed. He ran to fetch the other man._

_Minutes later, Neal walked slightly behind as the paramedics wheeled Peter and the other man out on stretchers. And then he heard the words he dreaded most. “His heart’s stopped!”_

_The paramedics stopped immediately and began to work on Peter. “Get the epinephrine! Are you loaded? Clear!”_

_Neal's own heart nearly stopped as they jammed a long needle into Peter’s chest, the needle itself making a sickening *thunk*sound as it pierced his body._

_NO! he wanted to scream. NO!_

“No!” Neal whimpered as he finally woke from the nightmare, heart hammering in his chest. What happened? What was that? 

Someone had tried to kill his father, and he was there. He saved him, but he was almost too late. 

He sat up and hugged his knees to his chest and breathed through his nose until he calmed. Jezzie got up off her bed next to his and laid a paw on him. “It’s OK, girl,” he assured her, wishing he could believe his own words.

\----

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and Neal was up and ready to go to school before his parents even stirred.

“What’s this?” Elizabeth said, amazed to see him up so early – it was usually a struggle to get him out of bed. 

“I dunno,” he said breezily, slurping at some orange juice while sitting at his customary perch at the kitchen island; he was reading the day’s paper. “Just up.” 

In truth, he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after his nightmare. He’d been having more and more of them lately and they were strange and disturbing. They didn’t feel like normal dreams to him – they didn’t tend to jump all around like other dreams. It was as if he was playing a part in a movie that he had never seen before. So he had gotten out of bed and tiptoed down to the living room and cuddled up under his grandmother’s afghan, idly petting Jezzie’s head and waiting for his brain to quiet down enough to sleep, but of course it never did.

“You look pale – you OK?” Elizabeth asked. 

Neal could never get anything past his mother. He shrugged. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much.”

“My poor darling,” she said, and kissed him on the head. “How about eggs for breakfast?”

She fixed them all breakfast, and Neal and his dad were out the door within the hour.

“So we got a letter from your school yesterday,” Peter said as he drove.

“Whatever I did, I have proof I didn’t do it, Dad.”

Peter laughed. “You didn’t do anything, buddy. It said how smart you are, which of course, we already knew, because you are the most brilliant kid on the planet.”

“Dad.”

“Well, it’s true. The letter also said they wanted to meet with me and your mom about you skipping a couple of grades at school.”

“Oh yeah?” Neal asked, hoping he sounded surprised enough.

“That something you’d be interested in?”

“Well, I don’t know. It would mean going to school with bigger kids next year, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. And you’ll probably need some tutoring over the summer, so you can catch up on the Math and Science classes.” Neal scrunched up his nose – he didn’t think he would like sacrificing his summer. “Not too much tutoring, probably,” Peter said, seeing his reaction. “You could still go to camp.”

“Do I have to decide now?”

“Nope, but soon probably. We’ve got a meeting with your principal and guidance counselor next week to talk it over. Do you want to come?”

“’K. Do I have to decide then?”

Peter smiled understandingly at him. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk it through, buddy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Let’s make that perfectly clear.”

He smiled back, relieved. “OK.” A minute later, they pulled up to the charter school Neal attended for gifted students. 

“I’ll see you at your game later, OK?” Neal, like his dad when he was a kid, was the star pitcher of his Little League team.

“4:00 and don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Peter said, and reached over to ruffle the hair on his son’s head. “Go be extraordinary, kid.”

Neal rolled his eyes – his dorky dad always said that when he dropped him at school – but he secretly enjoyed it.

\----

Neal and his best friend Teddy had their heads bent over Teddy’s new smartphone, checking out all the apps he’d downloaded, when a clearing throat at the front of their homeroom got their attention. Teddy quickly stowed the phone away – they were supposed to stay in kids’ lockers – and he and Neal regarded the newcomer at the front of the class with innocent expressions.

“Good morning, class, my name is Mr. Koehler. I’ll be substituting for Mr. Fricke, who has – had to take a leave of absence.”

Neal looked at the man with interest. He was of medium height, old – like, _40_ – and had dark hair that he kept neatly combed back. His dark eyes were narrow, squinched up with pronounced laugh lines that didn’t make him seem very happy or funny, and he wore a suit with an open-necked shirt, which Neal thought was odd for a substitute teacher. 

The class broke out in a low rumble of excitement – substitute teachers usually took it easy on them – but Mr. Koehler snapped his fingers at them diffidently. 

“Now, class, don’t think you can take advantage of a naïve, new substitute teacher. I’ve been where you’re sitting, so I know all the moves.” The man gave off an air of control that was immediately picked up on by the class, who settled down immediately. He picked up the class roster. “Let’s take attendance, shall we?”

Homeroom passed with no other drama, and Neal stayed in his seat and pulled out his Algebra text when the bell rang – Mr. Fricke was his math teacher, and Algebra was his first period class. He felt rather than saw a presence standing over him and looked up at Mr. Koehler. 

“Neal Burke,” he said. “I think I grew up with your father. Isn’t he from around here?”

“No, sir. He’s from upstate.”

“Ah, my mistake then. You just look so familiar to me.”

“I get that a lot,” Neal replied. He didn’t like the intense looks Mr. Koehler was giving him. The tension was broken as the other students began to arrive and take their seats. 

\----

That night, Neal had another nightmare. 

_He was in a big, fancy house, in a small room with shelves lining the walls, and on those shelves were boxes and boxes of comic books. Neal wished he could look inside the boxes - see some of the older issues of Justice Lad that were there – but suddenly, his dad was there, running toward him. Another man came up behind him suddenly, leveling a shot gun at them both._

_Neal was scared, but he thought fast – he picked up the strange wooden box on the table, triggering the room’s security system and a bulletproof door dropped down just as the young man pulled the trigger. But then all the air in the room began to be sucked away and Neal couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and he was frantically trying to look for something – something important behind all the boxes. He thought he found it but he wasn’t sure – there was no air._

_And he couldn’t breathe._

_He banged on the wall to get his dad’s attention, but there was still no air. And the room was getting dark._

“Help!” Neal gasped in his sleep, kicking at the covers around his legs. 

Elizabeth was alerted by the strange sounds coming from her son’s bedroom. “Honey?” She found him still sleeping, but clawing at the bedding, face contorted in agony. “Peter!” she yelled, running to Neal's bed and taking him into her arms.

“Peter! Help!” Neal gasped, and then he was awake.

“Neal?” El said.

“El, what is it?” said Peter, running into the room. 

Neal was panicking, taking great, sobbing breaths as he clutched at his mother’s sweater. “I couldn't breathe. There was no air and I couldn’t breathe!”

“Shh, it’s ok, my love,” El soothed, rocking him. “You can breathe now. You’re safe.”

“There was no air,” he repeated. “And he had a shotgun.”

“Who had a shotgun?”

“Avery. He was gonna shoot Dad!”

Peter and Elizabeth froze as Neal said the words, traded looks. “What was that, Neal?” Peter asked.

Neal sat up and wiped his eyes with the heels of his right hand. “The man had a gun and he was going to shoot you.” 

“Do you know why?”

“No,” he sniffled.

“Do you remember anything else from the dream?”

Neal shook his head – it was all fading away again – and El hugged him closer, rubbing his back with her hand. “It’s OK, honey, it was all a bad dream.” She held him until he fell asleep, then set him down, covered him up and kissed him on the forehead before leaving the room. She shut the door, but the knob didn’t catch, and soon the door swung open, hitting the back wall with a dull thud. The sound woke Neal and he lay in his bed, listening to his parents talk about him again.

_”You heard that, Peter, it’s all coming back!”_

_“I heard him, El. But it’s only one thing.”_

_“For now! What next? Kate? The U-boat? This has to stop.”_ Neal could hear the heels of her bare feet pounding as she paced in their room.

_“How are we going to stop it?”_

_“They said this wouldn’t happen. They said he wouldn’t remember, that a child’s mind couldn’t hold on to all of that, that his brain wasn’t fully developed.”_

_“They said he might not remember, hon. They were clearly wrong.”_

_“What are we supposed to do?”_

_“I wish I knew.”_

\----

“Be extraordinary, Neal,” Peter called through the open car window and Neal smiled, waved at him until the Taurus was all the way around the corner. 

Neal thought it was best not to share his fears about his dreams with his mom and dad until he could sort out what they meant for himself. He suspected there must be something up – something his parents were keeping from him – but he also had faith they were doing it to protect him. Why else did they sound so worried? 

He wasn’t sure what it all was, but he did think it had to do with his past. He knew he was adopted – maybe his birth parents were shady or otherwise dangerous. His dad was an FBI agent – maybe Neal's biological parents were in witness protection. Maybe his dreams had to do with something he’d witnessed as a baby. Maybe _he_ was the protected witness.

A hundred possibilities whirled through his brain, and he was more subdued than usual all day at school. As he was leaving for the day, his route took him past a park adjacent to the school where old guys sometimes played chess. There were tables set up in the shade, and sometimes he and Uncle Mozzie would go there in the summertime and play, Neal sucking on a Polish ice as Moz taught him chess theory and stratagems. As he walked, he spotted Mr. Koehler seated at one of the tables, alone, moving pieces around the board, lost in thought. 

“Hi, whatcha doing?” Neal asked, approaching the teacher. Despite a rocky start the other day, Mr. Koehler had proven to be a pretty good teacher, cracking jokes and driving his students to work hard at learning the material and applying it to real world examples, like money and race cars. Neal liked that he provided that kind of context, because he could relate better to it all.

“What does it look like?” Mr. Koehler said, but he wasn’t being rude; Neal felt like he was pressing him for an educated answer.

Neal stared at the board and wracked his brain. “Is that Fischer vs. Spassky?”

“Which one?”

Neal groaned. “First game – 1972?”

“Is that an answer or a guess?”

“An answer,” Neal said, his voice confident.

“Correct. I didn’t think kids cared much about chess these days.”

“My Uncle Mozzie started teaching me when I was little.”

“Your _uncle_ huh? You play a lot?”

“When I have time.” Neal found himself drawn to the board – after a few years, he and Moz no longer challenged each other.

“Have a seat, set up the board,” Mr. Koehler said, sitting back and smiling kindly while Neal did it. “I see you’ve taken white.”

“I’m sorry – did you want it?”

“No, no. I should give you the benefit of the doubt – you’re just a kid after all.”

Neal smiled at him winningly and made his first move; he had Koehler in check within fifteen minutes, and checkmate five moves later. “You being easy on me, Mr. Koehler?”

Koehler laughed loudly. “I thought so, but I see the error in my assumptions. Rematch?”

“Sure!”

They played two more games; Neal won the second, and the last ended in a draw; then Neal had to be going. “If I’m not home in the next fifteen minutes, my mom’s gonna have a cow.”

“Your mom overprotective?”

“Only when she has to be. Thanks for the game, Mr. Koehler.”

“I’m not done with you yet, kid. I need a rematch.”

“Sure,” Neal said, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder. “Tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Awesome!” Neal ran off towards home.

\----

A week later, Neal was sitting on the patio sketching for his Art class at school while Elizabeth prepared to grill some fajitas for dinner. “I’m home!” Peter called from the front of the house.

“Out here, hon!” she called. 

He came through the door, Jezzie on his heels, and kissed his wife, then slipped a hand around Neal's shoulder and hugged him to him. “Whatcha drawing?”

“A painting I saw at the Channing during our field trip today,” he answered distractedly. “Wish I had some pastels.”

Peter glanced down at the sketch and Neal could feel his arm tense where he was holding him. “You saw that at the Channing?”

“Yeah. _Young Girl with Locket_ by Haustenburg. I really like it – she’s pretty.”

“You’ve sure captured the essence of the painting,” Peter said, and Neal didn’t miss the gruffness that had entered his father’s voice. When he looked up at him, Neal caught the look he shared with Elizabeth, but looked down right away – he still didn’t want them to know that he suspected there was something going on.

“You know, they sure don’t hire the smartest people at that museum,” Neal said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh?” 

“The tour guide said the subject in the painting was the painter’s sister, but I had to tell him it was really his daughter.”

“Really. And how did you know that?”

“Research, Dad. It’s a pretty famous painting, you know. Something wrong?” Neal noticed that his father was running his fingers through his hair, something he only did when he was mad or upset. Neal half turned in his seat, concerned. 

“It’s nothing, Neal. Hard day at work, that’s all. Gosh, I could use a beer.” Peter retreated into the house, and Neal watched him walk over to the fridge, only instead of taking a beer, he grabbed the vodka bottle from the freezer and poured some into a glass. 

“Mom, what’s going on?” Neal finally said. “You and Dad have been acting weird for a week now.”

Elizabeth looked at him, startled. “What makes you say that?”

“There have been a lot of whispered conversations. I’m not stupid you know.”

“No, honey, you are not stupid. If you must know, your father and I disagree on whether or not to allow you to skip those grades at school. I am against it, and he thinks it should happen.”

“I thought it was up to me?”

“It is, but can’t we have an opinion?” she snapped.

She walked into the house to fetch the chicken that was marinating in the refrigerator, and Neal watched her as well. When she approached Peter, he started to say something, but she said one word and glanced out at Neal. Now they were both looking at him, and as much as he usually thrived on being the center of attention, it now made him feel like he was an alien being dissected in a government lab. He didn’t like it. And it seemed that his mother had finally noticed.

Ducking her head, she returned to the patio and slipped an arm around his collarbone, leaning down and resting her cheek next to his. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Neal,” she said into his ear. “This is not about you, I want you to know that. Your old Mom is just having some issues with her baby growing up too fast.”

“Really?” he said. He didn’t like how small his voice sounded in his ears, didn’t like that this was upsetting him. 

“Really. I love you _so much_ , it hurts sometimes. I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry.” She kissed him on the ear and stood up, ruffling his hair fondly. Neal leaned into her caress and tried to feel better.

That night, he dreamt of planes exploding, and when he woke screaming, he told his dad it was because he’d played _Zombie Apocalypse 3_ before bed.

\----

“You OK, Neal? That’s the second game in a row you’ve tanked.” Mr. Koehler reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Yeah. No. Sorry – it’s just stuff at home.”

“Your dad the FBI agent? Neal, he’s not… there’s not a problem there? Abuse?”

“No! No, nothing like that. God, no. Tell me you don’t think that, Mr. Koehler!”

“Relax, I don’t, but when you’re a teacher, they drill it into you to be on the lookout for these things. So, what is it, the usual pre-teen tribulations? Girl troubles? Somebody steal your bike?”

“Nothing like that, Mr. Koehler. it’s – well, it’s complicated.”

“Does it have anything to do with the fact you’re adopted?”

“No, I – wait a minute, how do you know that?”

“It’s in your school records.”

“No, it’s not.”

Mr. Koehler looked like he knew he was busted for a second. “You’re right, it’s not. Listen Neal, I haven’t been straight with you. When we met and I said I thought I knew your dad, it’s because I do. I mean, I did.”

Neal looked at Mr. Koehler suspiciously. “You’re not my bio dad, are you?” he asked quietly.

“No! For God’s sake, no. But I didn’t lie – I knew him. His name was Neal – just like you. Neal Caffrey, and you are the spitting image of him.”

“I am?”

Mr. Koehler nodded. “When I saw you I thought I was seeing a ghost.”

“So, he’s dead, then?” Neal asked, trying to hide his disappointment.

“I’m sorry, but yes.”

They sat in silence while Neal fingered his Queen-side knight. “How did you know him?”

“We came up together, he and I. You could say we were kindred spirits.”

“You were friends?”

“At one point.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

A pained look crossed Mr. Koehler’s face. “Well, let’s just say that Caffrey didn’t usually find himself on the right side of the law.”

“He – he was a criminal? Did he kill people?” Neal's head was reeling, and he could feel his ears get hot as they turned bright red

“No! No, he was what you might call a gentleman thief. Very slick. And unfortunately, it was ultimately the end of him. He finally stole from the wrong people.”

Neal looked down at his hands, tears burning his eyes. Darn it, he didn’t even know this man, why was he getting so upset? “Did – did you know my mom too?” he asked in a quiet voice. He couldn’t look up at Mr. Koehler.

“I did. Her name was Kate, and I’m sorry, but she’s dead too, Neal. She was in a plane that exploded. She was murdered.”

Neal's head snapped up and the tears brimming in his eyes fell as he looked sharply at Mr. Koehler. “What did you say?”

“She died in an explosion, right in front of your father. It was very tragic. He was sad for a long, long time. ”

“Mr. Koehler, I – I think I was there when my mother was killed,” Neal said, his eyes wide, scared. The tears were streaming down his face now, and he couldn’t control them.

“What? You would have been so little.”

“I was, I was. I’ve been having nightmares about it. I see it happening. I REMEMBER IT ALL!” Neal was hysterical now, shaking and crying, and Mr. Koehler got up and sat on the bench next to him and put an arm around him. 

“It’s OK, kid.”

“No, it’s not! My mother died and I saw it happen!” Neal sobbed into his shoulder.

“Shh, come on, it’ll be OK,” Mr. Koehler said, patting him on the back. “It’s OK to remember _everything_ ,” he muttered.

But Neal couldn’t stop the huge, gulping sobs that stole his breath and energy. When he’d cried himself out, he felt worn down and sick, his head all stuffed and dizzy.

Mr. Koehler handed him a bottle of water. “Here, it’ll make you feel better.”

Neal took a few deep breaths and accepted the water. “Thanks.” He sat dejectedly on the bench, exhausted. Now he knew why his parents were lying to him, and it made his head swim. He suddenly felt hot all over. “I’ve got to go home,” he said and stood. 

When he swayed on his feet, Mr. Koehler steadied him with a hand on his arm. “You all right, Neal? You want a ride home?”

“No, it’s not far. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go!” He grabbed his backpack and hurried away. 

By the time he walked the eight blocks home, the fuzziness in his head and the queasiness in his stomach had firmly taken hold, and he headed immediately up to his room once he got inside the door. 

“Neal?” His mom stood in the door, her brow furrowed as she saw him sprawled on his stomach in bed. “You feeling OK?” She sat beside him on the bed and petted his hair.

“No,” he said miserably. 

“Belly or head?”

“Both.”

She pushed his hair back from his forehead and felt it with the back of her hand. “Feels like you’ve got a temperature.” She tugged his sneakers off his feet and stood. “Get your jammies on, I’ll be right back.” She returned with water and Tylenol and made him swallow the pills and get under the covers. “Try and get some sleep, all right?”

He nodded, then remembered something. “But the meeting with the guidance counselor is tonight.”

“We’ll reschedule. Get some rest.”

He slept all afternoon and through dinner, and when he woke at midnight he felt mostly OK, if a little shaky. He got out of bed and went to his desk, switched on the computer and started researching as much as he could about a man named Neal Caffrey.

\----

“I looked up my bio dad’s name online,” he said to Mr. Koehler over their chess game two days later, when he was back at school.

“And?”

“It was all there – he was a criminal. And he went to jail.”

“Anything else?”

Neal looked at him quizzically.

“Did you know it was your father the FBI agent who caught Caffrey – sent him to jail?”

“What? That’s impossible.”

“It’s true. Your parents adopted the child of an ex-con.”

“But why? Did they know him? Did my dad have something to do with – with Neal Caffrey’s death?” Neal was suddenly angry, and felt like a fool for not having seen it before. The reasons for his parents’ lies were becoming more and more clear; what wasn’t clear was why they’d keep this from him. 

“Hey, now, wait a minute, wait just a minute,” Mr. Koehler said, putting a steadying hand on Neal's shoulder. “Don’t be angry with your father, you can’t know his motivations. He and your mother must love you very much.”

But Neal wasn’t hearing his words, all he could think was that he needed to know. He needed to know why his parents would take in the child of a criminal that his father had sent to jail. His mind could not fathom a single, possible motivation or reason for it.

Neal went home, pretended he had a lot of homework and kept to his room all afternoon, pausing only to eat dinner. He went to bed as usual, though tonight there were no whispered conversations about him coming from his parents’ room, which was just as well, because he didn’t think he could take any more revelations. 

He lay in his bed wondering about his biological father, and what his life would have been like if Neal Caffrey hadn’t died. Would he have followed in his footsteps? Would he have taught him how to lie, cheat, steal? He didn’t think he would like that, but he wondered if he’d have any choice. He wondered if he had any choice now – would he turn out to be just like his father anyway? Was it his destiny - would he grow up to be a criminal? Didn’t they always say the apple never fell far from the tree? 

His mind flashed on an image of his mother’s disappointed face, and he was looking at her from behind bars, and it made him want to cry. He flipped over onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head, trying to banish such thoughts. But he couldn’t, and he tossed and turned the whole night, convinced he was destined to repeat the crimes of his biological father.

In the morning, he got up, ate his cereal and rode to school with Peter like every other day. “Be extraordinary,” his dad called after him, and he couldn't suppress a flinch at those words – did he really feel them? Was his father really so proud of him? Or did he just feel sorry for him – son of a low-rent criminal that he was.

He watched his dad drive away and when he was sure he was completely out of sight, Neal doubled back and walked towards home. He wanted more answers about his past, and he knew where to find them.

His mother had a client meeting in the city that day – she had left before Neal had even gotten out of bed, and wouldn’t be back for hours. He used his key to get into the house, disengaged the alarm and patted Jezzie on the head when she came to greet him. But there was no time for play – he needed to find the information he was looking for.

Neal knew that his father kept all the family’s important papers in the wall safe in his bedroom. He found the key easily enough – it was in the junk drawer in the kitchen and he’d seen his mom put it there before. What he didn’t know was the combination. He trotted up the stairs and into his parents’ bedroom. 

He paused just inside the door, taking in the familiar decoration of the room – how many nights had he spent lying between them when he was little, convinced there were monsters under his bed? Somehow, doing this felt wrong, like a betrayal, but his need to know was stronger – strong enough to push whatever guilt he felt at being dishonest out of his mind.

He dragged the seat from his mother’s vanity over to the mantle and began to clear the photos and other knickknacks away so that he could work on the safe. He paused when he picked up the picture of him and his father fishing at Lake Placid two summers ago. They were both laughing at something his mom had just said before snapping the picture. His dad was wearing the goofy fishing hat with all the lures on it that he’d picked up at some outdoor store in Manhattan, and his mom had called him a Great Outdoorsman. But the fish they’d caught was delicious, even if no one could figure out how to get all the bones out. Neal had fallen asleep that night with his head in his dad’s lap, and his feet in his mom’s and had never felt safer in his entire life. He shook his head and set the photo aside – he couldn’t think about that now – he had a mission.

He tried a few different combinations before one worked – his birthday, and he decided to think about that later as well. Inside, he found passports old and new, insurance policies, bonds, stock certificates. At the bottom of the pile, in a thick manila envelope labeled “Neal” in his mother’s handwriting, he found what he was looking for. 

He jumped down from the seat and went to his own room to inspect what was inside. On top were his adoption papers, with a bunch of stuff about home studies and petitions to the court that looked really boring. He kind of expected to see that, so he set it aside. Under that, he found two birth certificates stapled together – on top was one that listed Peter and Elizabeth Burke as his parents. Below that was what he assumed was his original birth certificate, which he also perused carefully. What he saw didn’t make sense. 

On the original it said:  
 _This is to certify that a birth certificate has been issued for_  
Neal George Caffrey  
Born on: October 11, 1980 in New York, New York  
Father: George Brian Caffrey  
Mother: Jane O’Neal Caffrey

“I thought my father’s name was Neal too,” he said aloud shaking his head, then his eyes zeroed in on the birthdate. “1980?” The other certificate, for Neal George Burke, stated that his birth date was October 11, 2009. “What the heck is going on?”

The final thing that was in the envelope was an extremely thick sheaf of papers that had a _lot_ of big legal words and motions and stuff Neal didn’t understand. At the bottom of it was a decree signed by the governor of the state of New York that seemed to reclassify one Neal George Caffrey as a “minor adult” and resetting his birth year to 2009. 

Neal stared at this document for a long, long time, his mind reeling, his fingers ghosting over the governor’s signature, the raised seal where it was notarized. None of it made sense, none of it. But he thought he knew where he could find the answers he needed.

\----

“I thought you said you knew my father,” Neal said to Mr. Koehler. It was lunch period, and the substitute usually ate alone in his classroom.

“Hello, Neal.”

Neal walked into the classroom and stood beside the desk at the front of the room. “I thought you said _you knew my father,_ ” he repeated. “This says his name was George.”

Mr. Koehler picked up the birth certificate Neal slipped across the desk and studied it for a moment. “It also says that Neal Caffrey was born in 1980,” he pointed out quietly.

“Why? Why does it say that? Who is Neal Caffrey?”

Koehler looked up at Neal and into his eyes. “I think you know the answer to that already.”

“No.” Neal shook his head emphatically, but Mr. Koehler continued to regard him soberly. “It’s impossible.”

“And yet you hold the proof of it in your hands. _You_ are Neal Caffrey.”

“I’m not, I’m just a kid.”

“You’re Neal Caffrey.”

“Neal Caffrey should be like, 40. I just turned 11.”

“I’m not saying I understand why it happened, but it’s a fact. You know it is.”

“I’m a dirty thief who conned people out of their money and art? _I_ am?” Neal asked incredulously.

Mr. Koehler nodded gravely. “I’m sorry, Neal, I really am, but it appears to be true.”

There were tears in Neal's eyes suddenly. “No. Nononononono.”

“Your parents have been lying to you.”

“I need to go,” Neal said, his voice hitching. He gathered up the papers he’d brought, shoved them into his backpack and headed for the door.

“Neal!” Koehler called out to him, but he began to run – he had to get away.

\----

Neal sat in a tire swing in the school’s playground. He had his original birth certificate in his right hand, his left arm hugged the chains of the swing, and he was spinning around on a tight axis maintained by the toe of his sneaker in the sand. He heard Mr. Koehler sit in the swing right next to him, but he didn’t look up. He just kept spinning.

“I’m sorry, kid, I am.”

“You didn’t do anything.” Neal was angry – angrier than he’d ever been in his whole life, but he couldn’t be mad at Mr. Koehler, who had nothing to do with it. So he tried to keep his voice calm.

“You know what I mean. This is a tough thing to take, and I’m sorry.”

“Did you know all along? Who I was? _What_ I was?”

“Not until I saw you. No one looks that much like a parent, no matter what people say. I knew who you were the minute I walked into that classroom. I knew you were my old friend, who’d disappeared so long ago.”

“Your friend the thief and liar. That’s what I am,” Neal said bitterly and stared up into the sky, trying to keep the angry tears at bay. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I wish I could tell you. Help you. But you should talk to your mom and dad, see what they have to say - ”

“I won’t! I won’t talk to them!” Neal said vehemently, looking Mr. Koehler in the eyes. “They lied to me. Built my whole life on a lie – how can I go back there?”

“So what, you’re just going to run away? Don’t you think they’ll be worried about you? They love you.”

“I don’t care,” Neal said viciously, his brows knit together in anger. 

“Well, you can’t just run away, it’s not safe.”

“I’ll go to the city – lots of places for a kid to disappear in Manhattan.”

“Lots of places for a kid to get killed. I won’t let you do that, Neal.”

“You can’t stop me!”

“But I can help you.”

“What?”

“Come to the city with me. You can stay at my place until you can figure things out. At least you’ll be safe.”

“You – you’d do that for me?”

“Hey – I’ll be doing an old friend a favor, won’t I?” He stood and held a hand out to Neal, who jumped down from the swing and picked up his backpack. Koehler put a hand on the back of his neck and smiled. “It’ll be just like old times.”

\----

 

Peter got out of the Taurus, grabbed his briefcase and locked the car. He had come home early because the family had rescheduled the meeting with the guidance counselor and principal about Neal's skipping grades for that evening. They were due at the school in an hour, and still they didn’t have a decision for them. He spotted Elizabeth heading towards him from her own parking space up the block, and they converged on their front stoop at about the same time. 

“Hi, hon, have a good day?” she asked, getting up on her tiptoes to kiss him hello. 

“Long staff meeting,” Peter shrugged. “You?”

“I hope so – if I snag this account, we’ll have an in at the Mayor’s office.”

“Good luck then.” Peter unlocked the door for them both and let his wife precede him into the house while he grabbed the mail. 

“Neal, we’re home, honey!” El called out as soon as she got inside. She hung up her coat, then headed up the stairs to drop off her things in her office while Peter stood in the kitchen sorting through the pile of mail. He was just about to open the cable bill when Elizabeth’s panicked, “Peter!” from upstairs made his blood run cold. 

“What? What is it?” he said, entering their bedroom. El turned around, and Peter saw behind her the mess Neal had left when the boy had rifled through the wall safe. “Oh no,” he breathed, turned on his heel and went to the bedroom down the hall. There were papers strewn on the bed, but no sign of their son. Peter sorted through them all – the envelope had held Neal's files from the adoption and his reclassification hearing, and some of the documents were missing. 

“Neal!” Peter could hear Elizabeth searching for him on the third floor, and he went out to the hallway. 

“Is he up there?” he asked, knowing already what the answer was. El’s face was as white as a sheet as she stumbled down the stairs, and he could see her trembling. He handed her the papers from Neal's bed, and she rifled through them quickly, saw for herself what was missing. 

He gathered her into his arms as she moaned, “Oh my God, Peter, he knows, he knows!”

Peter had to agree with her conclusion – there was no question in his mind that Neal's dream about Avery could not have been his first, and had been enough to make him investigate further. It also explained Neal's being uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn over the last few days. Somehow, he’d figured out that he was the victim of a freak accident eight years ago that left him a child again at the age of 30.

But the papers in the safe wouldn't have told Neal the whole story, so Peter went into his son’s room and fired up his PC. On it, he sorted through pages of browser logs that showed he’d already researched the name “Neal Caffrey,” and Peter clicked through on a few. Conman. Art forger. Convicted felon. Thief. To Neal, his old identity was the sum of these news items, none of which told the true story. The story of the Neal Caffrey Peter knew: loyal friend, trusted partner, courageous, intelligent, maddening, lovable. And the Neal he’d become in recent years: beloved son, cherished and adored.

“Oh my God, what must he be thinking?” El said, sitting on her son’s bed with a stricken expression on her face. 

“Never mind that, where the hell is he?” Peter said. He stood and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, cycled through the numbers on it and called the school. El got her own phone out and called Neal's friend Teddy’s house, then some of his other friends. Within ten minutes one thing was clear – Neal had cut classes that day, and none of his friends seemed to have seen him. 

\----

When Peter arrived at the school, the principal Mrs. Wong was waiting for him in her office with Mr. Bryant the guidance counselor. Elizabeth had remained at home in case Neal showed up, or if any of his friends had any information. Within minutes, some of Neal's teachers that were still in the building after classes had also gathered , and they were discussing when they had last seen the boy. 

“I thought I saw him after third period this morning,” Bryant was saying. “He was talking with Mr. Koehler in his classroom.”

“Mr. Koehler? Who’s that?” Peter asked.

“Substitute math teacher,” Mrs. Wong informed him. “Mr. Fricke had an accident and had to take a few weeks to recuperate.”

“Neal didn’t mention a new teacher.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve seen Neal and Mr. Koehler together a few times after school,” added Bryant. “I think he was teaching Neal to play chess.”

“Neal is an expert player, he wouldn’t need instruction,” Peter said, pacing the floor in front of Mrs. Wong’s desk.

“I saw them at the tables in the park next to the school, playing. I just assumed he was teaching Neal.”

“But they were friendly, would you say that?” Peter said, pressing him.

Bryant gave it some thought. “I would say so, yes. They certainly seemed to get along well.” 

“Where is this Mr. Koehler? Is he in the school?”

“He called out for the afternoon, come to think of it,” said Mrs. Wong. 

Peter looked at her sharply and she flinched. “The strange man who’s been spending time with my son has disappeared at the same time,” he said slowly. “Who is this Koehler?”

“Now just a minute, our substitutes are subjected to detailed background checks.” Mrs. Wong got out the file for the substitute, but found nothing inside but his application. “I don’t understand,” she said. “There should be a background check in here, a copy of his photo ID, but there’s nothing here. Nothing.”

The knot in Peter’s stomach began to twist itself painfully and he closed his eyes, trying to think. “Does the school have surveillance set up that encompasses any part of that park?” he asked.

Mrs. Wong gave it some thought, then called down to the security office, requesting the tapes be sent up. 

“No, wait a minute,” Peter said before she could hang up. “Have them also pull the tapes for every exit from the building today, every exterior shot you can pull. If they left together, it’ll be in there.”

“Certainly, Mr. Burke. We can set you up in our media room.”

“No, I’ll take them with me to the FBI – we’ll have better resources there. Please ask them to hurry.”

\----

Peter stood behind the chair of Agent DeVries from the Cyber Division as the man scanned the footage from the school’s surveillance cameras for signs of Neal. The door of the video suite opened and closed and Diana entered, bearing coffee and sandwiches. “Any luck?”

DeVries accepted the coffee gratefully, but shook his head. “It must be the best covered school in the district, but no sign of the boy yet.” 

Diana took a seat at an adjacent station. “Let me help, then – it’ll make it go faster.” Peter just stood at the back of the room staring at nothing, a muscle working in his jaw the only sign of life in him. Di picked up a disk labeled “Playground 3” and slid it into the machine in front of her. Fifteen minutes later, she sat forward and slowed the progression of the video. “Hang on a second. Is that Neal?”

Peter stepped forward and leaned over her shoulder as she magnified the image. “Yes.” On the video, Neal wandered slowly out of the school building, heading for a bank of tire swings in the middle of the playground. He sank onto one of the swings heavily, his shoulders bowed and his head down, pulled a piece of paper out of his backpack and began to stare at it. He looked so dejected, it made Peter ache to reach out and comfort him. 

Neal sat swaying and twisting on the swing for several minutes before another person entered the frame, an adult male. He kept his back to the camera when he took up the swing next to Neal's and the two seemed to be talking as if they knew each other. 

“The mysterious Mr. Koehler. Turn around so I can see your face, you son of a bitch,” Peter breathed.

Neal seemed agitated on the footage suddenly, and a few minutes later, Koehler stood, held a hand out to the boy. Neal slid out of the swing and took a step toward him. Koehler rested his hand on the back of Neal's neck and squeezed, and the two of them turned to leave the playground. When they did, Koehler finally faced the camera, his features presented full-on for one, fleeting second. 

“Freeze that!” Peter ordered, but Diana already had. She magnified the image, sent it through a few filtesr in the graphics program she was running to clarify it. Finally, the man’s face resolved itself into something recognizable.

“Oh, my God, boss!” Diana sat up and reached for Peter, but he had already dashed from the room.

The man in the image was Matthew Keller. 

\----

Peter stood on the plaza in front of the Federal building, staring at his cell phone in his hand. Upstairs on the 21st floor, Diana was mustering resources for the search the FBI was about to launch for Neal and Keller. An Amber Alert had been sent out throughout the five boroughs, Connecticut and New Jersey, and all LEAs had been alerted. Diana had also sent agents to the Burke home to be with Elizabeth in the event of a ransom demand. Peter wanted more than anything to be with his wife, had in fact been ordered by his boss to go home, but there was no way he could do that. 

His phone vibrated with an incoming text. _The mockingbird flies at midnight,_ it read and he turned around. 

“I don’t have time for this now, Moz,” he called out.

“Fine, fine,” Moz said as he approached Peter from behind. “Now tell me what was so urgent that you couldn’t tell me over the phone.

Peter turned and looked at his friend – in the years since Neal's adoption, the love the two men had for the boy had led to them forging a close friendship – and took a stumbling step toward him. For a moment, the iron grip he had been maintaining on his composure began to slip. 

“Oh, my God, what happened?” Moz asked urgently, taking in Peter’s pale face, the tears brimming in his eyes. 

“Matthew Keller’s back,” Peter moaned despairingly as he grabbed onto Mozzie’s shoulders for support. “He’s taken Neal, Moz! Keller’s got my son!”

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Pizza’s here,” Mr. Koehler said to Neal, closing the door of the loft he’d been squatting in for the last few weeks. Neal switched off the television show he wasn’t watching and walked over to join him at the kitchen table. Mr. Koehler laid the pizza box down, then crossed over to the fridge and grabbed a beer for himself and a soda for Neal.

They ate for a few minutes in silence, but finally Mr. Koehler spoke up. “So, did you say you could remember things about your life before?” He handed Neal a napkin.

“I suppose so. I thought they were dreams, but now I guess they’re really memories.”

“How much do you remember?”

Neal shrugged. 

“Do you think if you saw something from your past, it would jog your memory? Like you might remember doing something if you were in the same place, I mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”

Mr. Koehler leaned forward, and Neal didn’t like the mean glint he saw in his eyes, though it passed quickly. “How would you like to go on a treasure hunt?”

“Treasure hunt?”

Mr. Koehler leaned back in his chair and squinted at Neal. “Twenty-two years ago, one of the biggest heists in the history of Manhattan occurred. The take was said to be over $9 million. Now, seeing as the target was the Irish mob, the crime was never exactly reported. The mastermind of the job – one Edward ‘Kool Eddie’ Jenkins – hid the money as planned until the heat died down enough for him and his partners to divvy it up. Kool Eddie subsequently got sent up on a charge of grand larceny. He died in prison a year later, and the money was never found.”

Neal regarded Mr. Koehler with large eyes. “Wow! Do you know where it is?”

“No, but Neal Caffrey does.”

“Really?”

“Caffrey – I mean, _you_ – were something of a protégé of Eddie’s. You were young but smart, and rumor was Eddie told you where the money was hidden before he died.”

“I – I don’t remember any of that, Mr. Koehler.”

“But maybe you will, if we jog your memory properly.” He grinned at Neal.

Neal looked at him dubiously. He didn’t like the intensity in Mr. Koehler suddenly. Why was he so interested in this lost money? “How do you know all this, Mr. Koehler? You’re a teacher.”

Koehler shrugged and smiled, but the mirth he projected did not touch his eyes. “I have many talents. Eat your pizza – we’re going out after dinner.”

\----

Neal followed Mr. Koehler through a line of old warehouses on the waterfront in Brooklyn. He walked slowly, wondering if he could just slip away from the man when he wasn’t looking. He didn’t like how Mr. Koehler was suddenly only interested in finding the stolen money, and he suspected that was the only reason he’d been talking to Neal to begin with. This made him sad, because the idea of someone who’d known him before made him momentarily relieved, like somehow he could start to put the puzzle of his life together. But Mr. Koehler had already lied to him once, and he wondered what would happen if they really did find the money – how useful would Neal be to him then? 

If he could even remember anything about the money, he realized. Only a few memories of his old life had surfaced, and only while he slept, and he didn’t think he’d be able to just call them up no matter how they jogged his memory.

Mr. Koehler stopped walking and waited for Neal to catch up. He indicated the warehouse in front of them, and went over to the door, pulled out a set of picks and began to set to work on the locks. He had it open in seconds, much to Neal's amazement.

“You like that?” Mr. Koehler said, and Neal nodded – he never thought he’d be able to do it that fast, ever. “Practice, practice.” Koehler opened up the door and ushered Neal inside. 

They walked to the back corner of the place, where a small, glass-fronted office was set up. Koehler opened its door and walked in, beckoned Neal to join him. “You recognize this place?” Neal didn’t react. “Well, maybe you don’t because it’s been a few years. I’m sure the place has changed a bit, but it used to be where Kool Eddie worked. Rumor has it this is where the plan was hatched, refined, practiced. You see, across the way there?” Koehler gestured to another warehouse across a broad expanse of pitted blacktop. “That’s where the Irish mob used to move their money from running numbers, drugs, all kinds of stuff. The day of the heist, they were moving a larger sum than they usually did, because they were laundering a few extra million for the cartels, and the Mexicans, well, they used to like to deal only in cash. You know what money laundering is?”

Neal shook his head; he didn’t know what any of this was.

“Doesn’t matter. What does matter was that Eddie, whose day job was managing this place,” he indicated the abandoned warehouse as a whole, “heard through the grapevine what was going on, and started assembling a crew to rob the money train. That’s what they called it, because they’d transport the cash in containers they’d move over abandoned rails. You were his wheel man.”

“Wheel man?”

“Driver. I don’t know why, because you could never drive for shit, but I think he liked you, and he wanted to cut you in.”

“OK…” Neal said. 

“So, any of this jogging your memories? You getting a vibe here at all?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Take your time. Walk around. Take the place in. Absorb the ambience.”

Neal began to walk around the room slowly, because he thought that was what was expected of him, but it was no use – nothing about the place was remotely familiar. At last, he stopped and looked up at his teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Koehler. I don’t think I remember anything about this place.” 

A brief expression of annoyance flickered across Koehler’s face, but he couldn’t cover it fast enough, and Neal noticed. His smile made him look like a bird of prey. “That’s OK. Why don’t we visit the scene of the crime instead.”

A finger of fear poked Neal in the belly. He didn’t think he wanted to go to the other warehouse, not where criminals used to hide their money. He thought it would be too dangerous.

“Relax, kid,” Koehler said. “The place hasn’t been used by the mob in years. And you’re with me – what could go wrong?”

XxXxXxXxXxX

“You brought a Fed here, Moz? Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot the both of you on the spot?”

Rodney – no last name, just Rodney – was the clearinghouse for information in New York. He was like a spider at the center of a great web of informants, lackeys and cops on the take, all of whom saw the value in trading information with him. Nothing happened in New York without his knowledge; no wise con pulled a job without first consulting with him. To Rodney, information was power, and he guarded it closely. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t blame you if you did, but hear what we have to say before you decide. A child’s life may hang in the balance.”

Rodney’s stern expression softened. “Whose child?”

“His,” Moz said, indicating Peter with a thumb.

“And you’ve come to me? It seems to me the Feebs would have ample resources to help you.”

“Yes, the FBI is investigating, and they’re doing everything within the law to help, but I need more than that,” Peter said, his voice desperate. “I need whatever information you can offer, and I can pay. Please.”

Moz laid a hand over Peter’s to quiet him. “ _I’ll_ pay, Peter.” Of one thing Moz was certain: if Keller was in the city, Rodney knew about it. But that information would come at a high price, and there was no way he’d allow Peter to pay it. He couldn’t allow him to be beholden to a man like Rodney.

“Now wait just a minute there, Moz,” Rodney said. “It might not be a bad thing for me to have a Fed in my debt. This intrigues me.”

Moz bent over Rodney where he sat and made a dismissive gesture. “No. No way.”

“I’ll do it,” Peter said over him.

“What?” 

“I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. Please, he’s taken my son, will you help me find him?”

Rodney blinked at the pleading tone in Peter’s voice. “Who has your boy?” he asked.

“Matthew Keller.”

Rodney sat forward on the couch he’d settled his considerable bulk into. “Really?” he said, barely able to hide the contempt in his voice. Like many of the old guard in the city, Rodney had had his share of run-ins with Keller back in the day. Some had been profitable, most had merely brought messes. Besides, Rodney had grandkids he loved very much. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, his relief making him barely able to stand.

“And I’ll even forego my usual fee because I hate Keller as much as the next man. But one day I may need a favor from you, Mr. Fed. Are you willing to do that?”

“Anything,” Peter answered immediately. “If it will bring my son back to me safely, I’ll do anything.”

“I’ll call you within the hour.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

It was getting late – almost midnight – and Neal was exhausted and missing his home and his bed and his family. Mr. Koehler had dragged him to three other locations to see if he could remember anything, and of course he could not, so they had returned to the loft apartment somewhere downtown. Neal wished he had thought to look at the street signs – he didn’t know the city all that well, but if he could somehow get away, he wanted to be able to call his dad to come and get him. Even if he was still mad at his parents for lying to him, he wanted to be back with them more than ever, because he was now scared of Mr. Koehler.

Mr. Koehler was angry with Neal, he could tell. The amiable smiles had faded hours ago, and his manner with him was clipped and impatient. Neal could feel the barely contained animosity pouring off of him, and he kept looking for opportunities to slip away, but Koehler was near him constantly, and Neal knew if he tried to run, he’d only catch him. He thought he could be patient, bide his time until he saw an opening – the man had to sleep sometime – but it did little to ease the fear he felt.

“We’ll start again in the morning,” Koehler said, more to himself Neal thought, but he felt compelled to answer.

“I don’t know if it will make any difference,” Neal said quietly.

“What?”

“Please, I don’t remember these places, these people you’re talking about.”

Koehler put his hand on the back of Neal's neck – a gesture that earlier that day had been kind and fatherly, but now was imbued with menace – and hovered over him, his face inches from Neal's. “Then you’d better try harder,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I want to go home!” Neal blurted and Koehler’s hand on the back of his neck squeezed painfully.

“You’ll go home when I’m through with you.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I’ll do a lot worse if you don’t come through for me.” He pushed the boy away from himself then, and Neal stumbled and fell, his knees hitting the hard wood floor. The pain brought tears to his eyes and he cried out.

“Look at you,” Koehler said then, standing over him now. 

Neal sniffled.

“The great Neal Caffrey – reduced to this. Do you know you had one of the most brilliant minds I have ever encountered? And now look at you. Pathetic.”

“Please, I want to go home,” Neal whined.

“Home? To your father the FBI agent? Do you really trust the man who locked you away to begin with?”

Neal had a sudden flash of memory then – he’d never had one when he wasn’t sleeping before – of himself standing with his hands in cuffs, his dad standing nearby, smiling with self-satisfaction. ”No,” he moaned, closing his eyes.

Keller went on, “Did it ever occur to you that the reason he kept you around was to make sure you wouldn’t turn out the same way? A criminal? A thief? A liar?”

“No, he loves me, my dad loves me,” Neal moaned, but he was no longer sure of that.

“No, he just didn’t want to have to do it all over again! It must have been so tiring last time, and he’s not getting any younger.”

Neal curled in on himself and sobbed. _It wasn’t true, it wasn’t!_

“Stop crying.”

But Neal couldn’t. He sniffled and tried, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Koehler grabbed him by the hair and shook him. “Stop crying!” he yelled. 

“Ow!” Neal screamed, and tried to twist away, but Koehler was too strong.

“Get up,” he ordered, pulling. Neal got to his feet. “Over there!” Koehler pushed Neal towards the bedroom at the far end of the apartment. False walls had been built up around it, offering privacy from the rest of the loft, which was open plan, with exposed brick walls and ductwork along the ceiling. “Get on the bed.”

Neal climbed onto the bed and Koehler pulled a set of handcuffs from somewhere. “Better find a comfortable spot, because you’ll be in that position all night,” he said. Neal froze, so Koehler took his left hand and cuffed it to the head of the bed. “Snug as a bug,” Koehler muttered and stalked out of the room. Neal started crying again.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Anything else? OK. Yeah,” Moz took some quick notes and then hung up his mobile – Rodney had come through. “Jesus,” he muttered, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

“What is it?” Peter asked, tense. They were sitting in a booth at an all-night diner. Peter had called El to tell her he was working an angle with Moz. According to Diana, the Amber Alert had yielded nothing, and there had been no ransom demand. Not that Peter expected it – with Keller, there would be no ransom.

“Looks like Keller was looking into Kool Eddie’s money train job,” he said.

“What? I thought that was an urban legend.”

“It was not. No one knows what happened to the score after Eddie hid it. If I had to guess, Keller thinks Neal does.”

“But that was – how long ago? Twenty years?”

“More – Neal was just a kid, but Eddie had a soft spot for him, and everybody knew it. Neal used to go visit him in the joint.”

“Do you think he told Neal where the money was?”

Moz shook his head slowly. “Eddie may have liked Neal, but he was still a shrewd old SOB. He wouldn’t have coughed that information up to save his own mother. Besides, if Neal had known about it, I’d have known about it.”

“What do we do now?”

“We go to the scene of the crime, see if Keller’s been there.”

\----

“Another dead end,” Peter said bleakly, and glanced at his watch – it was now close to 3:00 am, and Neal had been missing for almost 16 hours. “I don’t know what we’ll accomplish at this hour – this place is closed.”

They’d been to the warehouse where Eddie had worked, and the scene of the robbery, and now they stood outside a shuttered storefront in Crown Heights that used to house an after-hours club. According to Moz, Eddie ran some of his cons out of the back room, and it should have been the first place they looked. 

“True, we can come back in the morning, but let’s see what we can find on our own,” Moz said, running a sneakered foot over the Bilco door set into the pavement next to the entrance. 

Within minutes, they were in the basement of the building, climbing the stairs to the main floor of the store, which was now a sub shop. “What’s this?” Moz said, bending over and picking up a brochure near the back counter. It was a scrap of a printed brochure of some sort, folded into an origami crane.

Peter took it from him and caressed it in his hand like it was alive. “It’s him, isn’t it? Neal left this.”

“I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life,” Moz said. 

Peter unfolded it and saw that it was a section of a menu from a pizza joint in Manhattan – their first clue. “Thank you, God, thank you,” Peter breathed and pulled out his phone. Diana answered on the first ring. “Di, we’ve got a lead. I need you to go to Randazzo’s, it’s a pizzeria on West 14th between 8th and 9th. Find the owner, wake him, I need to talk to him. Now.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

_”Don’t. Pick. This.” Peter said to him before leaving the meeting room._

_Neal's eyes followed him, but his head wouldn’t comply, so he sighed when Peter had gone, and looked down at the cuff that linked his wrist with the wheeled chair beside him. He shook his hand and the cuff rattled. “I could slip you off,” he said, addressing the cuffs. “That wouldn't be picking. That'd be slipping. But... Looooooove…. many splendored thiiiinnnnng!”_

Neal woke with a start, the dream-memory a vivid thing in his mind. And not just the action in the dream, but his feelings. He’d been stuck in a strange place – an office – and he had felt so funny. He was lying on a bed, tied down, but suddenly his father arrived to rescue him, and he was so happy and relieved to see him. Neal thought his dad was happy to see him too. His dad helped him get away. 

What was that place? When had it happened? Neal wasn’t sure, it was all a blur, but one thing he was certain of – the love he felt for his father was there even then, and he could feel it coming from Peter as well. Surely an FBI agent and the man he threw in jail ought not to have those kinds of feelings for each other. “You’re the only one I trust,” Neal had said to him, and Peter had patted him fondly on the head.

He jerked, and his left wrist blossomed in agony where it was cuffed to the bed. Koehler had made the cuff too tight, and he must have shifted in his sleep, as now his hand awoke in painful pins and needles. 

_Don’t. Pick. This._

Suddenly, Neal was staring at his deliverance from this situation, and he would have kicked himself if he could manage it for not thinking of it sooner. Sitting up, he pulled his feet closer to himself and reached down with his right hand to the cuff of the jeans he wore. He fingered around the newly-sewn area on the left leg, picking at the threads there, silently thanking his paranoid Uncle Mozzie for giving him the tiny lock picks, and that he’d decided to test his rudimentary sewing skills out on putting some of them into his clothes. It took a few minutes, but he was able to remove the pick, then switched his attention to the cuff on his wrist. 

After several minutes of trying with the tiny sliver of metal, Neal had no luck. “Come on, Burke,” he muttered to himself. “You can do this.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, then started over with renewed energy. “Now you’ve got five minutes,” he said, remembering his uncle’s lesson.

Four and a half minutes later, he felt the telltale click within as the lock turned over, and he was suddenly free. He rubbed at his wrist and got carefully off the bed. Moving over to the open bedroom door, he looked out into the main room of the loft. The sun had begun to rise, and from its weak light, Neal could see that Koehler was lying on the couch watching TV. He could see his bare feet hanging off the end, but the couch was facing away from where Neal was, so he couldn’t tell if Koehler was asleep or not.

Neal crept along the wall, keeping his steps light and as close to the wall as possible, to avoid making the floor creak as he moved. The going was slow, but he had always been capable of great patience, and he eventually moved far enough along to see that Koehler was indeed asleep. After a few more minutes, he was at the door, and within seconds, had it unlocked and open. With a backward glance, he snuck out onto the landing and headed for the stairs.

The loft was on the fourth floor of what used to be a pencil factory, but had long ago been converted into pricey apartments. Neal crept down the stairs as quietly as he could, and he didn’t think he made a sound, but he soon heard a yell from above as Koehler awoke to find the door to the apartment open and Neal gone. Neal took the remaining stairs at a run, hitting the third floor landing as Koehler’s feet hit the stairs above his head.

The stairs for this section of the building were situated at opposite ends of each floor, with balconies overlooking the lobby. Designed to be a showcase of the manufacturing equipment when the place was originally built – allowing visitors to walk the shop floors as they moved around the building – it meant that Neal had to run the length of the building in order to get to the next set of stairs. He ran as fast as he could, but he felt like Koehler was gaining on him. He twisted his body around to see where the man was as he hit the second floor, tripped and went flying. He landed sprawled on the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

“You little shit!” Koehler muttered as he came up behind him. He hauled Neal to his feet by his collar and shook him. “You’re as slippery as ever, I see.” He was about to drag Neal back up the stairs when a footfall behind them made the floorboards creak, and the cocking of an automatic weapon made them both stop.

“Freeze, Keller,” said a familiar voice, and Keller turned, his arm around Neal's collarbone, holding him in front of himself as a shield. 

“Dad!” Neal shouted, tried to get away from Keller, but the man held him fast.

Keller was laughing. “Agent Peter Burke, it’s been too long,” he said. “How are you? And the lovely Elizabeth?”

“Let him go, Keller, and I won’t kill you,” Peter said from between gritted teeth.

“Wait, you two know each other?” Neal said, incredulous, but Keller’s arm around his neck tightened and he didn’t dare speak again.

“Keller, do you ever tire of tormenting me and my family?”

“Oh, family is it?” Keller’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You mean you didn’t just keep Neal around for sentimental reasons?”

Peter ignored him. “What could you possibly want with him? He’s a child.”

“Oh, but he’s a very special child, isn’t he? One with a very interesting life history. Did you think I wouldn’t find him, Burke?”

“I thought you’d never see the light of day again, honestly – wasn’t that the point of a life sentence?”

“When you’re as resourceful as me, you tend to find people willing to help. The parole board was very… accepting of my rehabilitation.”

“You mean you bribed them.”

“Potato, potahto. But now here I am. With your boy’s life in my hands, again. How’s that make you feel, Burke?”

Peter stayed silent.

“You didn’t answer my question before – did you think no one would put two and two together? Neal Caffrey disappears, is reported presumed dead, and you magically adopt a child who’s his spitting image? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it all out.” 

“Those court records were sealed.”

“Resourceful, remember? I have to tell you, I didn’t think it was possible until I saw the kid. Imagine my surprise when I went to look up my old friend Neal and found that he now appears to be about 11 or 12. What a shock. What happened, exactly?”

“Th-they couldn’t say,” Peter stammered.

“But someone had to look after him,” Keller said.

“Yes.”

“And that someone was you?” Keller’s hand moved up and clutched at Neal's throat. Neal struggled, choking. 

“Keller!” Peter took a step forward, gun pointed right at Keller’s head.

“He’s a lot smaller than he used to be,” Keller remarked as he applied more pressure to Neal's throat. “I bet I could break his neck pretty easily.” 

Neal's struggling slowed as he began to lose consciousness. “Daddy,” he whimpered, but he could barely form the word. He sagged in Keller’s arms.

“Please, stop!” Peter said, his arm wavering. Finally, he lowered it, pointing the gun at the floor. 

Keller’s grip on Neal's throat eased. “Put it on the floor,” he ordered and Peter did. “Kick it over.” Again Peter complied. Keller leaned over, Neal still in his grasp, and picked up the gun, then pointed it at Peter.

“Wish I could stick around and chat some more, but we should be going.”

“Let him go, Keller.”

“He’s worth a bit more to me still, Burke. So sorry. And so sorry you won’t be able to stick around.” Keller raised the gun and aimed it at him.

“Dad?” Neal said.

“It’s OK, son.” Tears flooded Peter’s eyes as he looked at him. “Be extraordinary for me, OK?”

“I will.”

Keller fired once and Peter went down. “Dad! No, no, no!” Neal cried, struggling as Keller attempted to drag him away. Keller held him tight, but Neal's need to get to his father was stronger and he stomped hard on the man’s bare foot with the heel of his sneaker. Keller howled in pain and Neal twisted away. He ran to his father, who lay on the floor, clutching at the bullet wound. “Dad!”

“Run, Neal. Run!” Peter gasped, and Neal straightened up. Glancing back at Keller, who was recovering from Neal's assault, he headed for the last set of stairs. Grasping the banister, he pulled himself around it, and ran headlong down them as Keller got a shot off at his head; plaster flew everywhere. He ran as fast as he could, hit the first floor lobby with both feet, and then ran for the front doors. 

Neal pushed through the doors into the early morning sunlight to find that a group of FBI agents had surrounded the place. 

“Neal!” called a familiar voice.

“Aunt Diana!” Neal yelled and ran straight for her. 

She shoved him behind her protectively and raised her weapon as Keller burst out of the building. For just a moment, it seemed like he might have thought he’d make a break for it; he half-raised the gun towards the assembled agents.

“Just give me one good reason to put a bullet in you, Keller, just one!” Diana said, but the man thought better of it and flung the gun away from himself. Agents advanced on him, cuffed him, and dragged him away.

Diana turned to Neal and pulled him to her in a fierce hug. “Are you OK?”

He nodded against her body, then squirmed away from her. “My dad, he’s hurt!” he said urgently, and pulled away. He was about to run back inside when the doors opened again and Peter staggered out, left arm dangling uselessly at his side.

“Dad!” Neal shouted and ran to him. 

“Neal,” he said, wincing as Neal threw his arms around him and his head hit him right in the solar plexus. He held Neal close with his right arm, bent his head down and buried his nose in his hair. “Thank God you’re OK.”

“I’m sorry, Dad!”

“It’s OK.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Shh, we’ll talk about it later. Right now, we need to call Mom.”

\----

Later that afternoon, once Peter’s shoulder had been stitched up and he was resting comfortably in a hospital bed, El and Moz went off in search of something not cooked in the hospital for an early dinner for them all. Neal emerged from the hospital room’s tiny bathroom, headed straight for the bed and climbed in. He fit himself under Peter’s good arm and curled up against him, his arm flung across his belly and his head on his chest.

“You know, you’ll be getting too big for this soon,” Peter said, a smile on his face as he pulled Neal closer.

“I know.” He snuggled against him.

They lay that way for several minutes before Neal spoke. “What happened to me all those years ago?” he asked.

Peter took a deep breath. “They said they didn’t know. It was a rare thing – not the first time it’d happened, but they couldn’t explain it. One day you were yourself, and suddenly you weren’t. You were a little boy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We were going to. Some day. We didn’t expect that day to come quite so soon, though. When it happened, when you were de-aged as they called it, your memories of who you were began to fade, and the doctors didn’t think you’d get them back. If we’d known this would happen, son, you would have known who you were all along.”

Neal was silent another few minutes, and when he spoke again, his voice was shaking. “Did you adopt me so I wouldn’t go bad again?”

“What?”

“Did you adopt me so you wouldn’t have to catch me again? And put me in jail?”

Peter flinched and looked down at Neal. “Who told you that?”

“Mr. Koehler did.”

“He would. Listen, Neal, nothing that man said to you was the truth. He is evil and he hates our family, and he would do anything to hurt us, OK?”

Neal nodded. “Then why did you adopt me?”

“Because we loved you,” Peter said simply, and Neal sat up to look at him, a doubtful expression on his face. Peter took another deep breath and went on. “I’ll bet one thing Keller didn’t tell you about your history was that you and I were partners at the FBI, and we solved cases together.”

“We were?”

“Yes, and we were a great team. But we were more than that, Neal, we were best friends. And when what happened to you… happened, it was barely a decision for your mom and me to adopt you. We did it because we already loved you, and you needed a home where you would have that, and be safe. You’re as much our son as if you’d been born to us. I hope you understand that.”

“I do.”

“Good. I apologize for lying to you, but we thought we were protecting you. We wanted to give you a happy life, the life you deserved, and we haven’t wavered from that, not once. You’re _our life_ now, Neal, you made us a family. And who you were before – what you did, well, you did those things because in a way, it’s what your life added up to for you at that point, and you did what you had to do to survive. I don’t believe you’d turn out that way again, not in a million years. There’s no such thing as being born bad.”

Neal's eyes filled with tears as he listened to Peter speak. He saw and felt the love that had always been a part of their family in his father’s eyes, and he suddenly felt ashamed that he had doubted any of it. 

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you and Mom first, I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you. I’ll never run away again.”

“Please don’t. I don’t think your mother could handle it again.” Peter held his arm out once more, inviting Neal to snuggle back down next to him. When he was settled, he lay his chin on top of Neal's head and began to speak. “Now, let me tell you about the smartest, best man I ever knew – Neal Caffrey.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
